


heart of my heart

by ndnickerson



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Arranged Marriage, Christmas, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, First Love, First Meetings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Loss of Virginity, Tumblr: imagineyourotp, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nancy is content in her marriage of convenience to a man the age of her father, who loves her like a daughter. Then she meets Ned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from [imagineyourotp](http://imagineyourotp.tumblr.com/post/86613846965/imagine-persons-a-and-b-of-your-otp-are-in): Imagine Persons A and B of your OTP are in arranged marriages with other people. Their legal partners are very nice people, but they have little to no romantic interest in each other. Then Person A and B meet, and rapidly fall in love; though they have to act loyal to their married partners in public, their partners help to cover for A and B so that they can have an extramarital relationship.

Jonathan loves Nancy. Of that, she has absolutely no doubt.

He was her father’s oldest friend and his mentor, and when Nancy’s father passed away during a fever, Jonathan stepped forward. He has his own heirs, but Nancy’s father left only her—and so they came to an agreement. Nancy married him, and she spends Christmas at his manor, and a month of the Season in London at his townhouse, socializing with those in his set. She was groomed to be a perfect, gracious hostess, and thanks to her father’s busy social life and lack of desire to take another wife after Nancy’s mother died early in her youth, Nancy learned how to run a household, coordinate servants, and think for herself. The manor that had been her father’s is now Nancy’s, and she spends ten months of the year on her own, and happy to be. Hannah Gruen, who was her governess during her youth, has long been her companion; though she’s married now and above reproach, she enjoys Hannah’s company, and that of her childhood friends, Bess and Georgia.

Her life is exactly as she wishes it to be, and while she misses her father, she is glad for the freedom her marriage affords her. Jonathan wishes only to protect her; his children are grown, and he has long told her that he has no wish to see his nursery full again, other than with visiting grandchildren. Jonathan’s eldest son and heir is older than Nancy, with his own wife; Jonathan’s wife has hated Nancy since the wedding, because she doesn’t understand. On Jonathan’s death, Nancy will have her father’s properties, inasmuch as the law allows. For his generosity, they will revert to Jonathan’s heirs after her death. She will be provided for. She will be safe.

Bess, who was at the verge of being dubbed a notorious flirt before her marriage the year before, never tires of telling Nancy what she has forfeit by marrying a man so many years her senior, who has no desire to bed her and consummate their marriage, who has no feelings more warm than paternal ones for her. In her first Season, six men extended offers of marriage, but Nancy refused them all; her attendance at a ball guaranteed it would become a squeeze, and her informal coterie thirsted for the tales of her exploits. But Nancy is content as she is. She shares nothing more intimate than a public dance with any man. Her life is uncomplicated, brightened by intrigues and mysteries, and it is more than enough.

Then she meets him, during the last ball of the Season, during the fourth year of her marriage. Jonathan is in attendance, but it is poor taste to monopolize his lovely wife’s attention, and he insists that she dance even once his stamina has failed. Nancy has no shortage of admirers or potential partners vying for an introduction and the promise of a dance, but when Jonathan reluctantly admits that he must return home before supper, Nancy is left without a partner for that dance, and half-convinced that she should retire. Bess and George are still dancing, along with Helen and Hannah, but the Season has been unusually busy and she very nearly accompanies her husband home. Their relationship is platonic, but it is fond, and she values his keen insight and the tidbits of “news” he is able to provide on those in the  _ton_.

"Stay," Jonathan tells her, clasping her hands and kissing her knuckles. "It is the last of the Season, the last until Christmas. You’re young and beautiful. There is no better time for it, dear."

She nods and gives him a smile. “Perhaps just through supper, then.”

The next man who approaches her, once Jonathan has departed, is tall, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed and dark-haired. His jacket and trousers are tight-fitted, emphasizing his muscular physique, and his eyes glow as they gaze into hers during their introduction.

"Ned, this is my dearest, sweetest friend, Nancy Drew Renk, Lady Gresham. Nancy, this is my newest friend, Edmund Nickerson, Earl of Derby." Bess’s eyes are twinkling. "Since you are both unattached for this dance…"

"Are you available, m’lady?"

Nancy considers for the space of a few seconds, then nods. “I have no partner for the supper dance.”

"Then I count myself the luckiest man in this room."

As is customary, once they have shared the supper dance—and he is an excellent dancer, the best partner she’s had—they sit together for the meal, and their conversation is soon easy and familiar, as though they have known each other a long time. He has traveled, thanks to his service; he has seen far-off lands she has only ever imagined. When she raises an eyebrow, he explains: his cousin held the title, but after his sudden death, Ned, the next in line, succeeded him and now holds the estate and the lands. His cousin’s wife, Rebecca, had borne three daughters; she was devastated by her husband’s death, and to keep her and her daughters secure, Ned married her soon after his return from the wars.

"You truly are generous."

Ned makes a gesture that isn’t quite a shrug. “I could do nothing less. I never expected to hold the title, but Rebecca has no close family to return to. She is a lovely woman, and her daughters are quite well-mannered.”

Something in his eyes, in what he isn’t quite saying, makes Nancy tilt her head. She wonders if he found himself in a situation much like hers, subject to factors he never truly considered, left to make the best of things.

After supper Jonathan had only claimed one dance with her, and so Nancy has only one she can share with Ned later in the evening. She’s exhilarated by the prospect, and happy to find herself in his arms again; when his gaze meets hers, she feels a curious sensation down her spine, low in her belly, like nothing she has ever felt before.

"Must you truly leave tomorrow?" he asks, near the end of their dance. "Must you? The Season is not yet over…"

She gives him a small smile. “The plans and preparations are made,” she tells him. “But I often find myself in London; if you would prefer me to let you know…”

"Very much. I very much wish to continue our acquaintance." And she’s breathless for a moment, unable to draw her gaze from his for the rest of their dance.

Once she returns to the townhouse, Nancy slips out of her royal-blue ballgown and satin slippers, letting her maid collect the jewelry she wore to return it to the house collection. She combs out her hair thoughtfully before she plaits it for the night, then puts on a robe and passes through the connection to her husband’s room.

He has long made it clear that her room is her own, her privacy hers, and that his door is almost always open to her, so they can talk. When she peeks around the edge of the door, he stirs, opening his eyes. He is snuggled under the bedclothes, a mug at his bedside.

"Yes, m’lady? Any intrigues to report?" Jonathan begins to push himself up, positioning a pillow behind him. His kind eyes are still heavy-lidded from exhaustion.

"I don’t believe so," she says slowly, then perches at the foot of his bed, unsure of how to say it—unsure even of what she wishes to say. "If I were to begin a—a correspondence with a man I met tonight…"

"A rake, m’dear? I thought you a better judge of character than that."

"He seems respectable. He is an Earl—though the title does not preclude such behavior, I know. But I do not wish to upset you."

Jonathan studies her for a long moment. “Do you find him handsome?”

Nancy glances down, a blush rising in her cheeks, and her silence is its own answer.

"You are young," he says. "And beautiful, Nancy. I know I cannot give you all I should, as your husband; I had hoped that what I could provide might be…"

"What you have given me is more than enough," she tells him, her voice earnest.

"But ours is not a true marriage." His smile is gentle. "I ask that you be discreet, and that while you are in public, your behavior remain above reproach. If you wish a correspondence, or more, with this other man, if that makes you happy, you have my blessing."

She just gazes at him, speechless, color still staining her cheeks.

"No matter what we have said, I cannot think of you any other way than as my daughter," he says. "I can’t bear the thought that our marriage might cause you pain, or deprive you of all you might have had. But if you discover you are with child, please know that the law says that child will be mine."

"He may not feel that way about me."

"But you feel that way about him. I understand." He smiles. "Another child to dandle on my knee would not be the end of the world, by any means. Be as free as you can, Nancy, while you still have the time and the youth to enjoy it."

It’s not until she has slid beneath the cool covers of her own bed that she remembers the reason she did not give Jonathan, what is probably the best reason for her to put it out of her mind. Ned is married. His current wife is undoubtedly beautiful.

But her heart tells her that maybe his marriage is much like hers. That maybe wherever he is tonight, he feels much the same way she does. Maybe it is all in her head, the excitement of the ball, of his interest…

But when she sleeps, she dreams of him. In the morning her maid tells her a delivery has arrived for her: a heavy cream-colored envelope addressed to Nancy, Lady Gresham, and a single red rose.

—

Their correspondence begins innocently, save for its frequency; he is prolific and she has never met anyone who writes the way he does. On her trips abroad Bess writes and sends detailed accounts of all she sees and does, the fashions and the meals; when Ned writes her, Nancy can hear his deep, rich voice, can feel the warmth in it. He seems lonely, like he can talk to no one else about his life, and she has been at her father’s manor for a month when Ned admits to her that his marriage is much like her own. He and Rebecca are fond of each other, but she is still consumed by grief over the loss of her husband, and they are merely friends.

He wants more. She senses that he has known what it is to have more with someone else, but she never has. She doesn’t know what she wants. She just wants to spend time with him, as much time as she can.

But she is already committed to a month in France, with a group of friends she has made during her intrigues, at the home of a Countess. Her house is near the sea, and she has all sorts of outings planned, and a grand ball to end their visit.

Nancy doesn’t mention her new acquaintance to Celeste until the second week. During the third, he arrives at Celeste’s invitation, and he is even more handsome than his image in her memory. She can’t bear to look at him too long, afraid that what she feels will be written on her face, in the blush of her cheek.

They spend every waking hour together. They go for long walks through the carefully manicured and designed gardens, go on horseback to the seaside; they find every semi-private niche and room in the Countess’s house, and though they spend so much time together, she never compromises herself. She is married and he is married and a part of her is still shocked by Jonathan’s suggestion, that she might find herself with child, by a man not her husband. That she might let what has evolved from a friendship to more go any further.

She understands flirtation; she saw Bess engage in it enough, heard her friend’s stories. Bess has even told her of the delight it could provide, the quickened breath at the glance of a fingertip, the delicate entwining of shared intent, a dance that serves as a prelude instead of a consummation. Her heart climbs into her throat each time Ned finds an excuse to touch her, when he offers his arm to her, when his palm rests politely at the small of her back, when he brushes a wisp of her reddish-gold hair from her cheek. She thinks of the dance, of being in his arms again, and tells herself that it is all she wants. A fitting conclusion to their time together.

But the feel of his arms around her, instead of sating her, makes her want more. They share nearly every dance, and they take advantage of the excuse to stay so close. When she’s flushed with excitement and exertion, he suggests a cooling walk in the gardens, and she accepts his arm with another rush of pleasure.

The Countess had colored lanterns placed in the garden for the guests to enjoy when they needed some air; the pools of yellow, blue, and pink light fade into deep shadows between. He draws her into one of those corners, and she gazes up at him, breathless, too overwhelmed to think.

"Tonight," he murmurs, stroking her cheek. "Tonight, let me come to you."

She has trouble finding her voice. “Your wife—”

"She understands. She has the protection of my name and the title. She wants nothing more from me. And you…"

He leans down, nuzzling against her cheek, and she loses her balance when her knees go weak, her fingers grasping at the shrubbery around them for a hold until his arm slides about her waist. She thinks, _No, we cannot_ , but she says nothing.

"And you are all I have ever wanted," he murmurs, and his lips brush her earlobe. "I need you, Nancy, and we can be together tonight. No one will know or care. If you wish it, love."

A bolt of pure, sizzling desire rushes down her spine, to the tips of her breasts and the join of her thighs, when the heel of his hand brushes the side of her breast, his breath against her neck just before he kisses her throat. The only sound she can make is a low, strangled whimper. He wakes such desire in her, and so easily…

"Yes," he whispers, drawing her close. "Please, Nancy. Please."

"Yes," she breathes, closing her eyes, head tipped back like a prayer.

After the ball is over, after her maid has taken her gown and her jewels and she is left alone in her room, she bathes and then combs out her hair, plaiting it as she always does so it falls in a long rope over her shoulder. She pulls a deep-blue dressing gown over her simple cotton nightgown, and she tries to think it through, to weigh whether she has made a good decision or not. But she cannot. She wants him. She wants to be with him. They have become so close, and Jonathan gave this his blessing, and…

The love she feels for Jonathan is a softness, a fondness and familiarity, a gratefulness. He helped her when she needed it. But she has never felt for anyone what she feels for Ned. It burns her alive; it leaves her in agony, and her heart is brought to a strange, feverish life in his embrace.

She turns from the window at a soft noise, in time to see Ned closing the door behind him. His skin is the color of rich honey in the flickering candlelight, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes her knees weak again. She feels like a bride on her wedding-night, for the first time.

When he kneels at her feet, her heart is in her throat. “I will give you everything,” he says softly. “Everything I can. Starting with my heart.”

She gives him a smile. “And you will have mine to replace it,” she murmurs, and his hair is like silk under her fingertips.

He strips off her dressing-gown and her nightgown. He unplaits her hair, drawing his fingers through it, as she gazes into his eyes, speechless and aching with need. He moves her to the bed, and she trembles when he touches her. “I have never,” she whispers, and she can hardly believe this is happening.

"Then I will make it gentle," he whispers, and when he comes to her he is naked too. He takes her hand and places it against his hip, encouraging her tentative explorations, stealing kisses and stroking her too. She has never felt anything like it, anything so incredible, so intimate.

By the time he rolls her onto her back, moving her legs apart and perching between, her anxiety has faded. The candle has burned down and she doesn’t know what is coming, only that his long fingers have stroked and penetrated that most secret part of her until she is languid and flushed, and she can feel her pulse like a second heartbeat between her thighs, and where he touched her almost aches with anticipation. Then he kisses her, slow and deep, his tongue stroking and teasing hers as he reaches beneath her, lifting her hips.

He presses inside her, that part of him he let her stroke and touch, exploring in her curiosity. He pushes deeper and she arches, her lips parting, her fingernails digging into his back as the ache deepens. She gasps when she feels a flash of pain, but he moves deeper and she whimpers, thinking that he cannot possibly go deeper, he cannot possibly…

And then the ache fades to a dull throb, then only a tenderness, an awareness of their joining. He holds still inside her and she blinks, a tear sliding down her cheek. So this is what it is, to feel love.

She has just began to relax a little when he pulls back and thrusts inside her again, and she is undone by the incredible pleasure, and her fathomless hunger for him wants more, _more_. She clings to him as he works inside her, pushing her hips up to meet him, a blush rising in her cheeks at the wet sound of it. But she cannot stop.

She is lost, and all she knows is him.

When he lowers himself to her, gasping, she is trembling and beyond thought, beyond anything other than the pure delirious pleasure of their lovemaking. She clings to him, closing her eyes, and knows that what she has just done will destroy her.

Because she cannot imagine spending another night outside the circle of his arms.

—

They meet every time they can, that summer, that fall. She feels like everyone knows what’s going on when she engages a suite of rooms at an inn in a distant town and he takes one too, but she is desperate for him, eager and bright, and when she is in his arms, it doesn’t matter so much. She writes to Jonathan every now and then, telling him where she’s going and the sights she sees, and in his letters back he speaks of “her friend” with what is almost a fondness.

_You are alight, my dear, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. I am glad you two have found each other._

At Christmas she returns to Jonathan and Ned returns to Rebecca, and they have already made their plans for the new year, for two weeks alone together at her father’s manor. She feels his absence keenly, and the anticipation of his visit is sharply sweet. Westfell is gorgeous, the well-manicured lawns blanketed with snow and all mantels and tables decorated with holly and bows. Nancy greets her stepdaughter-in-law in a daze, her lips curved in a gentle smile, oblivious to the usual glare. She is in love, and nothing hurts save his absence.

That night, as she escorts Jonathan to his room, he pats her hand. “Come to me in a few minutes, dear, once you’re ready for bed,” he tells her, then vanishes into his room.

She has spent too long away from him. The lines of his face have deepened; she sees shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes, and hears a cough once he closes the door. She shakes her head, chastising herself as she goes to her own room, slipping out of her dinner gown. Her breasts seem more full, and tender, as she bares them to the firelight before slipping into her nightgown and dressing gown. Her maid has already delicately suggested that she might need to let out a few of her tighter gowns.

Jonathan is coughing when she comes in, but he gestures her to the foot of his bed, and she perches there, her brow creased with anxiety as he pats his lips with his handkerchief and sighs. His breath rattles in his chest.

"You will come here for your confinement," he tells her, his voice gentle. "I suppose it will be in a few months. I hope that I shall live so long."

She shakes her head, her blue eyes searching his.

"I remember the glow my Elizabeth had about her, when she was expecting," he says gently. "I see that same glow about you now, love. And you have found happiness with him."

She nods, and her hand steals over to cup her belly. His child. She knew, but it had been like a dream, outside her comprehension. Ned’s child.

"That you shall live… Jonathan?"

He is overcome by another coughing fit, and she crosses to the small table to pour him a glass of water. He accepts it with a grateful nod, and she pats his back.

"I don’t know how long it will be. Days, months. Perhaps a year, but this Christmas has been so lovely that it would not be the end of the world, for it to be the last."

"No," she murmurs, and wraps her arms around him, and he pats her back. "No, Jonathan…"

"And you will have the protection of my name, you and your child. You shall have your estate. You will be safe, Nancy. As your father would have wished to see you." He coughs again, and she strokes his back.

"He is kind to you, isn’t he? Tell me if he isn’t and I shall slap a glove in his face, as ludicrous as that might be. Or have John do it."

She smiles, despite the tears in her eyes. “I love him like breathing,” she whispers. “And if he could love me more than life, he would.”

"And no children of his own, yet."

"Only his cousin’s children."

"Maybe I can meet him." Jonathan pats her hand. "Tell him I shall haunt him if he breaks your heart, because your heart is more precious than the stars, Nancy."

She can’t quite believe it, not until she tentatively asks Bess and finds that the interruption in her courses is the best sign that Jonathan’s intuition is likely right. And when Ned comes to her at the new year, his eyes aglow with the same love she feels in her heart, when they are in her chamber and flushed and exhausted in their afterglow, she guides his hand to her bare stomach and whispers it to him like a secret.

"I think I might… that soon we might have a child."

"Nancy? Oh… oh, love…"

He buries her in kisses, until she’s squirming and laughing at the joy of it, at the reverence and wonder in his face when he strokes his fingertips over her belly. “Our baby,” he whispers.

"Our baby," she whispers. The nursery is unused here, save when Bess visits with her children; Nancy will air it out, and sit in her mother’s rocking chair by the crib, looking down at the angel he has given her.

Ned makes love to her again, gently and tenderly this time, sweet as he was with her their first night together. When he pulls her close afterward, her head on his shoulder, he kisses her forehead. “Our baby,” he whispers.

And once he’s asleep, she strokes his hair back from his temple and releases a long, happy sigh, then closes her eyes. He is the dream she never had, and loving him has been like opening her eyes for the first time. She cannot regret a moment of it.

Jonathan could have forbid it. He could have told her, the night of the dance, that she was to refuse Ned’s acquaintance, and she would have. She owed him, she _owes_ him, too much not to… but he let her find her heart.

She breathes a prayer for God to bless her husband and the child growing inside her, and falls asleep in the arms of the man she loves.


End file.
